“It is not I, at all events,” she exclaimed.  “Oh, signore, you should not have mocked me with your congratulations.  That is not the happiness you should offer to a daughter.  But you have not killed him yet—­there is time; let things be as they were; that is what my sweetheart, as you call him, will say; he and I are not afraid to suffer.  Surely, rather that, than that he should marry a girl so heartless and cowardly as to purchase her happiness at the cost of her father’s life?”

“My dear young lady,” he said, with a great pity and concern in his face, “I can assure you what you think of is impossible.  What is done cannot be undone.”

Her proud indignation now gave way to terror.

“Oh no, signore, you cannot mean that!  I cannot believe it!  You have saved one man—­oh, signore, for the love of Heaven, this other also!  Have pity!  How can I live, if I know that I have killed my father?”

He took both her hands in his, and strove to soothe down her wild terror and dismay.  He declared to her she had nothing to do with it, no more than himself; that her father had been tried by his colleagues; that if he had not been, a fearful act of treachery would have been committed.  She listened, or appeared to listen; but her lips were pale; her eyes had a strange look in them; she was breathless.

“Calabressa said they were all-powerful,” she interrupted suddenly.  “But are they all-powerful to slay only?  Oh no, I cannot believe it!  I will go to them; it cannot be too late; I will say to them that I would rather have died than appealed to them if I had known that this was to be the terrible result.  And Calabressa—­why did he not warn me?  Or is he one of the blood-thirsty ones also—­one of the tigers that crouch in the dark?  Oh, signore, if they are all-powerful, they are all-powerful to pardon.  May I not go to themselves?”

“It would be useless, my dear signorina,” said Von Zoesch, with deep compassion in his voice.  “I am sorry to grieve you, but justice has been done, and the decision is past recall.  And do not blame poor old Calabressa—­”

At this moment the bell of the outer gate rang, echoing through the empty house, and he started somewhat.

“Come, child,” said her mother.  “We have taken up too much of your time, Stefan.  I wish there had been no drawback to your good news.”

“At the present moment,” he said, glancing somewhat anxiously toward the building, “I cannot ask you to stay, Natalie; but on some other occasion, and as soon as you please, I will give you any information you may wish.  Remember, you have good friends here.”

Natalie suffered herself to be led away.  She seemed too horror-stricken to be able to speak.  Von Zoesch accompanied them only to the terrace, and there bade them good-bye.  Granaglia was waiting to show them to the gate.  A few moments afterward they were in their carriage, returning to Naples.